Turbulent Years

Seventeen-year-old Jenia Cabresi stomped out of the Corner Caf into a late gray afternoon in downtown Los Angeles that slick November day in 1947; a day when billowy dark cumulus clouds hovered above the city, bringing an eerie dampness into every crevice of the metropolis. Drifting westward toward the blurred, thirsty Santa Monica mountains, the pending storm promised relief for the withering plants and fading foliage. The unusual appearance of the Los Angeles winter season begged for the moisture that was about to embrace every living thing in its path. A row of bright headlights splashed cautiously down Broadway in the approaching dusk, accompanied by honking horns emitting different pitch tones, transit buses puffing out black exhaust fumes, delivery trucks and
merchant hand carts pushed by men scurrying in and out of side alleys running for shelter.

Ill show him. Ill show him. That sonuvabitch Jew Swartz. Jenia cried. Hes got it coming. Yelling at me again in front of all my customers in the middle of lunch hour. Who the hell does he think he is, anyway?

Slivers of rain rushed down her face beside her tears of despair, Mama, where are you when I need you? she silently implored.

Then her thoughts switched abruptly to the slums of the East Bronx, New York, in the late 1930s and 1940s where her mother, Tina, lived with her boyfriend, Sal, who tormented, beat, and abused Jenia and her sister,
Dorothy, for more than 12 years. Rarely a day went by in their young lives that he didnt find a reason to whip them with his belt or punish them in one sadistic way or another. She remembered how she and her East Bronx girls gang would snuggle up in the corner of the junkyard, light a cigarette, and pass it around for each to inhale profusely. The street kids made solemn oaths to keep shared secrets to themselves. Jenia once told them about Sal catching the mouse in his wire box trap, holding two live electric wires to the metal box while making the girls watch the tiny mouse squirm, squeak, and go belly up. Sal just laughed. The girls screamed in horror.

She tried to shake thoughts of Sals cruelties out of her mind by recalling the events that had sparked her off earlier in the day. Overhead, a ferocious looking black cloud appeared to be descending. Perfect, she thought sardonically, marching onward as the cloud erupted above her with a roar that nearly jerked her off the ground, Goddam. Damn!

A couple of nuns scooted past her. Jenia lowered her head to avoid eye contact. She wanted to be a nun when she was in her early teens. She attended confession every Saturday with Dorothy and mass every Sunday. She loved church and God. It seemed to be the one retreat where she was free of the turmoil and anger around her; but time has taken its token.

Glancing at the dignified sisters, she made the sign of the cross, whispering, In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, amen God forgive me but that Jew guy is driving me crazy.

The nuns, dressed in full habit, kept their heads bowed and sheltered under a black umbrella without noticing Jenia. Thank God they didnt hear me, she whispered, For sure I would have had to say 1000 Hail Marys and 1000 Our Fathers!

To the east, in the heart of the business garment district, torrents of hail furiously bounced off the windshields of crawling cars. Shining through the darkness, illuminating the hustle and the bustle of the days end, a bright slit of sun squeezed its way across the tall, vertical gray city buildings. It cast lively silhouettes framed by a half-moon rainbow, stretching its circle-like- aura over the cement slab horizon. While clouds roared angrily above, releasing torrents of wet hail on the glass-like sidewalks, people darted like little ants in and out of doorways trying to shield themselves from the sting of relentless pellets, holding umbrell